aisle.
13
The doors finally closed and the tour bus inched along the curb in front of the Vatican, the driver eagle-eyed for a gap in the traffic.
“Look.” Pietro nodded back toward the piazza. Thomas leaned across her. The clerk, in the center of the tourist scrum, snapped his head left, right, left again, clearly at a loss and clearly livid. In the patternless milling another disruption caught Thomas’s eye: two men in blue uniforms and a third in a dark suit charging the wrong way through the entry and shouldering through the crowd. Gendarmerie: the Vatican Police. Thomas saw the clerk catch sight of them, too, and fade back into the shadows. Why? Thomas wondered. The Gendarmes would have been alerted by the alarm, but they wouldn’t know what they were chasing. The clerk not only knew what, but whom. Why not race over to the police and tell them? Help them?
Unless what Pietro had said was true: the clerk had been trying to steal the book for himself.
Thomas flopped back against his seat as the bus found an opening and dove into the stream of cars. What was he doing? This is pride, Thomas. The sin of pride. You should have stood your ground in the passageway and shouted for help. You should have summoned a guard on the piazza as soon as the alarm bells rang. You should have wrestled Damiani’s notebook right out of this mad historian’s hands. Though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d have done that, given her baffling physical strength. Admittedly he had little experience of the female body, but he’d seen her outwrestle the clerk and he’d felt her iron grip—he touched his arm; it was tender and, under his sleeve, no doubt turning colors—and he didn’t think he was wrong in suspecting Livia Pietro was, comparatively, a powerhouse. Still, that he’d likely lose a cage match against her didn’t mean he shouldn’t have tried. But she was right. He was, as ever, curious. Pride: his right to have his questions answered trumping ethical imperatives, like Thou Shalt Not Steal.
He turned his head to look at Livia Pietro. She was still watching out the window.
“Well,” Thomas said softly. “Gendarmes. You’d think someone had committed a crime. Theft, perhaps. I wonder if they’re worried, the criminals.”
At that she sat back also, and shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“I can.”
She raised an eyebrow to him. She hadn’t removed her sunglasses, dark against her pale skin. Thomas found himself, irrelevantly and annoyingly, wanting to see those ocean-in-moonlight eyes again. Those eyes that had found their way so easily through the black passages in the Vatican, where he’d been blind as a bat. He pushed away the thought of Pietro’s eyes as she asked, “You can what?”
“Back them off,” he answered. “But you’ll have to give me the notebook.” If she did, he’d call Lorenzo. The Cardinal would tell the Gendarmerie it was just a misunderstanding. The police wouldn’t argue with the Librarian. They’d smell a fix but they’d drop it. Then Livia Pietro would owe Thomas, and he’d insist she tell him what the Concordat was and how she knew about it. And why she wanted it. And who—
“No.” Livia Pietro looked straight at him, planting her handbag more solidly on her lap as though issuing a dare.
Thomas, after a moment, settled again in his seat and stared at nothing. He should probably call Lorenzo anyway. He was cheered by the thought that Lorenzo would by now have gotten a report and that the events in the reading room would make Thomas look like a hero: madwoman steals book, clerk fails to stop her, Thomas runs after her. The body-block he’d thrown on the clerk might put things in a different light but even if Lorenzo heard about that—even from the clerk himself—the Cardinal would believe the Thomas-the-Hero version until he was forced to think otherwise. Which would be never, if Thomas called right now.
But he didn’t. He meditated on the relationship
13
The doors finally closed and the tour bus inched along the curb in front of the Vatican, the driver eagle-eyed for a gap in the traffic.
“Look.” Pietro nodded back toward the piazza. Thomas leaned across her. The clerk, in the center of the tourist scrum, snapped his head left, right, left again, clearly at a loss and clearly livid. In the patternless milling another disruption caught Thomas’s eye: two men in blue uniforms and a third in a dark suit charging the wrong way through the entry and shouldering through the crowd. Gendarmerie: the Vatican Police. Thomas saw the clerk catch sight of them, too, and fade back into the shadows. Why? Thomas wondered. The Gendarmes would have been alerted by the alarm, but they wouldn’t know what they were chasing. The clerk not only knew what, but whom. Why not race over to the police and tell them? Help them?
Unless what Pietro had said was true: the clerk had been trying to steal the book for himself.
Thomas flopped back against his seat as the bus found an opening and dove into the stream of cars. What was he doing? This is pride, Thomas. The sin of pride. You should have stood your ground in the passageway and shouted for help. You should have summoned a guard on the piazza as soon as the alarm bells rang. You should have wrestled Damiani’s notebook right out of this mad historian’s hands. Though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d have done that, given her baffling physical strength. Admittedly he had little experience of the female body, but he’d seen her outwrestle the clerk and he’d felt her iron grip—he touched his arm; it was tender and, under his sleeve, no doubt turning colors—and he didn’t think he was wrong in suspecting Livia Pietro was, comparatively, a powerhouse. Still, that he’d likely lose a cage match against her didn’t mean he shouldn’t have tried. But she was right. He was, as ever, curious. Pride: his right to have his questions answered trumping ethical imperatives, like Thou Shalt Not Steal.
He turned his head to look at Livia Pietro. She was still watching out the window.
“Well,” Thomas said softly. “Gendarmes. You’d think someone had committed a crime. Theft, perhaps. I wonder if they’re worried, the criminals.”
At that she sat back also, and shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“I can.”
She raised an eyebrow to him. She hadn’t removed her sunglasses, dark against her pale skin. Thomas found himself, irrelevantly and annoyingly, wanting to see those ocean-in-moonlight eyes again. Those eyes that had found their way so easily through the black passages in the Vatican, where he’d been blind as a bat. He pushed away the thought of Pietro’s eyes as she asked, “You can what?”
“Back them off,” he answered. “But you’ll have to give me the notebook.” If she did, he’d call Lorenzo. The Cardinal would tell the Gendarmerie it was just a misunderstanding. The police wouldn’t argue with the Librarian. They’d smell a fix but they’d drop it. Then Livia Pietro would owe Thomas, and he’d insist she tell him what the Concordat was and how she knew about it. And why she wanted it. And who—
“No.” Livia Pietro looked straight at him, planting her handbag more solidly on her lap as though issuing a dare.
Thomas, after a moment, settled again in his seat and stared at nothing. He should probably call Lorenzo anyway. He was cheered by the thought that Lorenzo would by now have gotten a report and that the events in the reading room would make Thomas look like a hero: madwoman steals book, clerk fails to stop her, Thomas runs after her. The body-block he’d thrown on the clerk might put things in a different light but even if Lorenzo heard about that—even from the clerk himself—the Cardinal would believe the Thomas-the-Hero version until he was forced to think otherwise. Which would be never, if Thomas called right now.
But he didn’t. He meditated on the relationship
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